13
Cries and Laughter
“Afraid to face the truth, it's unforgiving judgment, because you’re this monstrous thing even you can’t stand.”
13.
Surreal . . . Think that’s the word . . . When you don’t care . . . Nothing seems quite real, merely a series of hazy appearances that don’t mean anything beyond their face value.
Appearances are fine, you can live with them. No future, no past, just the fleeting present. Kind of child-like wonder sometimes, but mostly a quiet tragedy slowly unfolding, one no one else knows. Just content to watch, to let it happen. Live your life like a movie, more of an audience than an actor. A secret, private movie for one. It’s gone long enough, you can see all the ingredients, the beauty quite obvious now that all consequences are ignored. It needs a fitting end to seal it, however, can you think of one?
“Whatcha doing?” she says, a sandy-haired girl with a permanent grin. If Cupid were a girl, he’d look like her. The face of mischief, but too cute to ever take it the wrong way.
“Walking,” you say, can’t help but smile, impossible to be serious around some people.
“Have a nice walk.”
She giggles. It’s not what she meant and she knows that you know.
“I’ll try.”
Different faces for different people, switching personalities on demand like a chameleon. No wonder you don’t know who you are.
Maybe there’s nothing beyond that. Maybe there’s no “real” you beyond what others see in you, beyond what you see yourself. What a wonderful joke that would make . . . perpetually searching for something that doesn’t even exist.
You can’t stand experiments — they’re boring and pointless. You asked your physics teacher if you could be excused from doing the project. He insists you need to do something, so you suggest an alternative, half in jest.
“How about thought experiments?”
His head shot up in his typical fashion as if startled by thunder. But realizing it’s nothing (as always), he turns to you.
“Why not?”
He doesn’t care. You don’t care. You have a mutual understanding.
So you make up these thought experiments. No, you borrow them from books you’ve read. That’s OK, the experiments don’t have to be original, otherwise many Ph.D. candidates would have nothing to do. Not a reason why the experiments don’t have to be original, of course, it is just an irrelevant observation.
Anyway, there’s this poor cat that belongs to a mad scientist (is that redundant?) named ‘Schrodinger’ or something. A European dude probably. You see, this nut takes the cat and places him in a magical box. What’s magical about it? Well, the contents of the box can’t interact with the world in any way until you open it. Let’s see here, the book failed to mention this magical property, but it makes sense. Otherwise the point of the whole thought experiment — not that experiments have any point, but, oh never mind.
Where was I? Yes. The poor cat. So he’s trapped in this box, unable to interact with the world in any way. The box is wired such that a poisonous gas will be released, putting the cat out of his misery, if the atom in the box decays. Now there’s a fifty percent chance that this radioactive decay has already occurred. Well, everything’s fine and dandy and boring you say, but wait, here’s the kicker. Is the cat dead or not?
Who cares? you say, and you’re quite right, but the show must go on. The kicker is that the cat is neither dead nor alive according to Quantum Mechanics. No, no, not those bastards that rip you off fixing your car. No, it’s a branch of physics. The point is that the cat is neither dead nor alive until someone opens the box and observes whether he’s dead or alive. And you thought science was sane, hah! Just don’t tell the cat.
Funny? Tragic? A few other thought experiments like that and everyone dutifully nods as if none of them have a clue what you’re talking about. Why not, you don’t understand either, how can a cat be neither dead nor alive? Does Quantum Mechanics falsify Logic? Preposterous! But you like that about physics. Its insanity. Like your life.
For this presentation, he gives you an A. Or an A-. Which was it? Oh who cares, you’re just glad you didn’t have to do a real experiment. You just smile. He just smiles. It’s all a big joke.
They say something after school one day, a couple of giggling sophomores. They say . . . It doesn’t matter, all small talks are the same, unimportant gibberish as meaningful as hellos and goodbyes. They’re arguing about something, apparently not very important because they’re giggling throughout. They want you to take a side, somehow you’re the expert. What are they arguing about? Well, something not even worth remembering.
But you know what’s going on. It’s not an argument, not exactly, more of a choice they want you to make — which one of them do you like better? The question couched in all the subtlety of incorrigible giggles.
You play along, pretending innocence, but it’s kind of sad, only boys are supposed to ask. What do girls do if they like a boy? Since they can’t ask, they have to play these silly games or do nothing at all. Not their fault really, the rules set up long before by morons who wouldn’t know the first thing about true social interactions. Still, it’s sad to watch. To be trapped in all the nonsense of convention and not allowed to be true.
Religion is not the only force of oppression, they’re all around, so many everywhere there are not enough names. And Truth is the first casualty, always the first to go. That’s why you love her so much, you’re kindred spirits. If only you could find her again, convince her to come back . . .
What are they saying? Yes, the choice. Forget it. They don’t think twice about saying No, so why should you? Why should they have all the fun? It’s not a good reason, but who cares? At least you’re not openly cruel, maybe confuse them a little and they won’t know what happened.
Pretend to think seriously and then decide they’re both wrong, that the right answer is something so ridiculous neither thought possible. Of course, they both agree, agree immediately, because truth is not what they’re after. And with that, you leave them to ponder what happened, ponder what choice you made. Do they realize what you did?
Always so cruel. Why don’t you give them a break? Why do you have to shoot them down every time? It wouldn’t kill you to open up a little.
The song that keeps playing in your head. The rhythm of the music. Often different, but always controlling. You’re a slave to it, obeying its every command without question. Wherever you go, whatever you do, always to the rhythm of the music, always lost in it. Making you a mere extension of the activity, no better than an automaton.
This is how you forget, this is how you hide. This is what you value the most because it’s the only way you can be with all that’s happened. It neutralizes peer pressure, it neutralizes rage, it neutralizes embarrassment, it neutralizes everything because you cease to exist. And that’s the way you like it.
The rhythm of the activity, the beat of life. Why not? It may be a misplaced value, but it’s fine for now because high school is about style, not substance. Isolation is what you do and you do it very well. So well you have it down to an art form, you’re so lost in it you don’t even know you’re doing it. The coolest, most popular loner at school. So cool you carry universal respect. So cool you defy all stereotypes. How can so many people for so long fail to see the real you?
You carry around all these books, physics and math books, badly written, badly thought-out books. You’re sure the authors don’t have a clue what they’re talking about; unclear, imprecise, boring writing surely reflects stupidity or at least ignorance. How they managed to get their degrees is a mystery. Apparently, they have no standards in graduate schools. Maybe if you throw around fancy words no one knows you don’t have to actually understand anything. After all, how can they spot your stupidity if they don’t know what you’re talking about? Or maybe these are “science writers” who only pretend to know.
But you read them anyway, desperately trying to find something useful. You’re so desperate it’s pathetic. Don’t you know the score? It doesn’t matter, it’s all a big joke.
And these kids at school, think you’re a genius because of the books because you babble so much about physics. They don’t know the real you, they don’t know that you bury yourself in books because you can’t stand socializing. At least this way you have an excuse for being a loner. Yeah, you’re so interested in physics you’d rather not talk to anyone. Unless it’s about physics. What a joke.
Why don’t you like socializing? Because you don’t know what to say? Because you’re not sure who likes you and who’s just pretending? Because you can’t believe that anyone would like you if they knew the real you?
True, you never really tried to make friends. You moved so much that it was almost useless. You’d just leave them sooner or later, usually sooner. Was easier to withdraw and try not to need them. You did have a few that lasted through the years until you left for America, but that was luck. Still, you have a new start, you should try to make new friends. But something’s holding you back, always holding you back.
Because you’re angry all the time? All that rage must be enough for several lifetimes. Poor thing, can’t even express it. People are so nice to you at school, rage is so out of place. You wait for someone to do something bad, to say something bad. Anything. Just so you can lash out righteously, and explode with justification. Because you can’t lash out at the one person who truly deserves it, because she has the power to send you back.
No, no, that’s not it. It’s past that, you don’t care anymore. No, you’re trapped in the personality you’ve created, and that personality doesn’t know defiance, doesn’t know how to explode. It’d be so out of place, so out of character. When you go home to them you become that character, and you can no longer tap into the anger. But when you come to school it all comes out, seeking expression. What a predicament you’ve created for yourself.
Why don’t you let it all go? Don’t you see there’s no point to it? Just laugh, don’t take it so seriously, it doesn’t matter anyway. After all, life is a fucking joke, right?
But it’s not just anger, there’s something else holding you back. A voice inside that tells them to go away, to leave you alone. A timid voice of a child, embarrassed, ashamed. You’re this stupid, ugly, hateful thing that no one could love. Stephanie loved you because she didn’t know. She saw only what you wanted her to see, only the lie. You’re not the courageous, confident person she saw. You’re not the multi-talented genius she imagined. You’re not the kind, honest person she thought. You might like to think you are, but you know you aren’t.
Your genius is just a sham, a misperception cultivated by your trivial cleverness. So you have a knack for understanding certain truths, so you can easily grasp concepts, and find shortcuts to solve problems. But what good are your truths? What good is your brilliant intuition? Trivial cleverness . . .
And your useless talents . . . A clever turn of phrase yes, silly poetic musings sometimes, but a writer? So you can draw what you see, and read music without practice. But what can you really do with them? Merely a circus freak show to amuse people . . .
If only she knew how stupid and inept you really are, how you can miss the simplest things. How you can’t find the seat belt hookup in an unfamiliar car, how you can’t remember the color of your bedroom walls or the names of people you just met, how you can’t give directions to your house if your life depended on it, how you had to develop the habit of meticulously scanning your immediate area before leaving because you’d always forget something . . . So disconnected from reality, from the surroundings, from everything practical. So inept you’re not fit for life — too many obligations, too many details.
And the confidence? Just an illusion . . . When she was with you you felt you could do anything. Create the most exquisite art, compose the most inspiring music, write the most touching poem, figure out all the secrets of the universe, change the world for the better . . . All the impossible dreams, all the incredible accomplishments within easy grasp. Just get the right skills and education, and you could do it, you could figure out a way. Life seemed like a huge treasure chest to explore . . . All illusion, just her irrepressible optimism rubbing off on you, just her magical presence masking reality.
If only she knew the real you inside, how ugly and hateful you really are. The overwhelming rage you harbor, the unmistakable hatred you carry. Enough rage to destroy the world many times over if you only could. Enough hatred to keep on destroying it if necessary. The faces, the attitudes, the stupidity . . .
Me, me, me, always me. Me, my child, my family, my neighborhood, my country, my religion, my race, my sex. You? Do you have needs? Do you have opinions? Screw you, you don’t matter. As long as my interests are served, who cares? There’s only so much love to spare, you know? I don’t have enough for you too!
Just accept Jesus Christ as your savior and you’ll be all right. How do I know this? I don’t, that’s the beauty, you see? I believe that’s all. Yes, I expect you to change your way of life, your attitude, your identity based on a stupid fucking belief. It’s called ‘faith,’ a nice word don’t you think? I have no reason, no justification, only a belief, and based on this I expect you to rot in hell if you don’t go along. Have I convinced you yet? No? Maybe a crusade will help! Kill your children, kill your family, then maybe you’ll come around! You have to come around because I can’t stand having such a stupid belief all to myself. Maybe if the whole world was stupid and insane, I wouldn’t feel so inadequate. No, no, don’t bring reason! Don’t bring science and philosophy into this! How can I convince you of stupidity if you insist on being rational?
Beat you up senseless then maybe you’ll see I’m right. Because if you’re afraid, if you know what’s good for you, then you won’t insist on this foolishness. You’re just a rat in a maze I control, to be trained with shocks, hunger, and food. What you think doesn’t matter. What you feel doesn’t matter. Don’t argue with me, I already know what’s good for you, what you need, what you’re worth, and what you should and shouldn’t do. Don’t try to change the system, improve the conditions. It’s useless, I won’t allow it. Obey my ways and you’ll be rewarded. Otherwise know that the torment you suffer is your own doing, your own stubbornness. Learned the lesson yet?
Nothing in the whole universe is as ugly as those faces . . . The faces of pettiness, the faces of selfishness, of arrogance, of stupidity. All that exercise you do, all that makeup you put on, all that fancy clothing you wear, how will they hide the overwhelming ugliness inside, the hideousness of your soul? Get away from me, get away from me all you piles of trash . . .
Condemn the world all you want, but it’s you with the ugliest soul. Do you think you’re an exception? Do you think you’re any better? So absorbed in your problems, in your little world . . . When’s the last time you helped anybody? When was the last time you thought of someone else’s problems? You think only of yourself, aren’t you the one with the most selfish face? You don’t even care about your family, you don’t even care to have friends, you don’t care about the world. Here you are so full of rage, so full of hatred, you couldn’t care less if the world was destroyed, if humanity died out. In fact, you wish you could destroy it yourself. Wipe out all that ugliness and maybe give another species a chance. Humans are too stupid, too ugly, too selfish. Get rid of them all and start again. You’re the one with the darkest soul, you don’t even care about your own kind.
The outside is no better. Always self-conscious because you look so out of place, so different, so ugly. You just want to fit in, to blend in with the crowd and be one of them. But you’re never one of them; you always get singled out. How appropriately does your appearance match your soul?
Not that people tell you straight out. If anything, they say only the nice things, but you know better, people lie just to be nice. Saying you’re ugly might seem like a racist comment, and no one’s openly racist. Besides, the way your own parents treat you, you must be the ugliest son of a bitch ever born.
And what courage? What honesty? You couldn’t even tell her, show her your true self. Always cowering in the dark, behind a wall. Sealed off from others, sealed off even from yourself. Afraid to come clean lest they reject you, hurt you, shove truth into your face. Afraid to confront your own emotions lest they consume you, destroy you, and leave you naked in your hateful ugliness. Afraid to face the truth, its harsh glare, its unforgiving judgment because you’re this monstrous thing even you can’t stand. Isn’t that why you ignore yourself? Isn’t that why you stay as far away from yourself as possible? You don’t really want to know who you are, it’s a lie. You already know and pretend that you don’t because you can’t face the truth. You’re this stupid, ugly, hateful thing that no one could love. Isn’t that why you put up with it all? Because you know you deserve it. However harsh and unbearable things get, you know you deserve it.
A serialized coming-of-age novel about a boy who must decide whether to live or die after surviving an abusive family and the death of his love: first.
